Chapter four:
The private jet touched down smoothly on the Caribbean island, kissed by soft winds and glowing in the golden hue of late afternoon. Steven Kock and his new bride, Cherry, disembarked with minimal fanfare—at least by their usual standards. This was their honeymoon, after all, a time to step away from public spectacle and bask in the quiet promise of forever.
Inside the jet, moments before landing, the newlyweds had spent their time flipping through photographs from the extravagant wedding. Laughter danced in Cherry's voice as she commented on guests' outfits, while Steven wore a passive smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Among the many keepsakes they brought along, Cherry had tucked away a few small, hand-carried gifts. One in particular stopped them cold.
It was a card from Cherry's eight-year-old nephew, drawn in bright crayons and messy penmanship. The words were simple but striking:
> "You need plenty love in your marriage and for each other. I noticed you both hardly talked about it. Congratulations!"
Cherry's smile faded. She looked up at Steven, who met her gaze with equal silence. No words passed between them.
After a brief pause, Steven reclined his seat and drifted into sleep, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. Cherry, however, remained wide awake—her phone buzzing non-stop with messages from friends, followers, and inner-circle contacts.
One message made her stomach knot instantly.
Jack.
The text flashed on her screen, and her fingers trembled as she opened it.
> "Congratulations, Mrs. Kock. You remember our deal. I let you go, but that didn't mean you're free. Ignore me, and there will be consequences."
Then came the part that turned her insides to ice.
> "Also, thanks for that last gift. You screamed so loud the gang thought someone was being strangled. Can't wait for round two, if the stars align."
Cherry felt sick.
How dare he put that in writing? What if someone else saw the message?
But deep down, she understood Jack's game. This was not about love. It never had been. It was control. Power. Blackmail.
Her thoughts drifted back—high school days, back when she was just another rebellious girl in private school. Jack had been the leader of the pack—the dangerous, charismatic, drug-running boy who ruled the streets like a shadow king. They called him Crocodile because once he got a grip on you, he never let go.
He had introduced her to drugs. She, in return, had funded his lifestyle whenever he was low on cash. Their bond was built on thrill, addiction, and twisted loyalty.
Jack never made it past college. Violence got him expelled, and from there, he sank deeper into the underworld.
When Cherry got engaged to Steven, she knew she had to cut ties. She'd told Jack it was over.
But he laughed. "You don't leave me," he said. "Membership is for life."
She'd tried walking away. Returned once. Twice. The final time, she threatened him—told him she'd get her father involved.
That was no empty threat.
Jack had exploded with rage, leaping from the frayed armchair in his pest-ridden apartment, facing her like a predator cornering prey.
"You're going to call your daddy on me?" he roared.
Cherry stood firm. "Try hitting me, Jack. I dare you. But remember one name—Rocket."
The name changed everything.
Jack froze. Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
He remembered.
It had been a night neither of them could forget. She'd taken him out of his dingy slum for once, to a burger joint uptown. Just as they were settling in, a sleek car screeched to a halt outside. Rocket and his crew—Jack's rivals in a vicious turf war—emerged, armed and ready.
They had spotted him through the glass.
If the bulletproof windows hadn't saved them, they would've been riddled with bullets. Instead, chaos erupted outside as Jack shielded Cherry and they scrambled to safety.
The incident made headlines: "Senator's Daughter Escapes Gang Shooting."
Two days later, Rocket and his entire crew were found dead—an apparent overdose resulting in electrocution. But Jack knew better.
That was no accident.
Cherry's father, Senator Goldman, had sent a message in the language the streets understood best—silent, final, and irreversible.
When she mentioned Rocket, Jack backed down. Quickly. He changed tactics.
"I only lash out because I'm hurt". "Losing you was too much."
A lie, of course. But a calculated one.
Cherry stared at the screen, anger pulsing in her chest. Jack wasn't in pain. He was baiting her, manipulating her again.
And she hated herself for feeling something—whether it was fear, regret, or that old addiction to chaos. The memory of that final night lingered. She could still smell the drugs, hear the scream, feel the sting of shame as she gave herself away one last time.
A farewell.
Or so she thought.
She hated this part of her life. Wished it could be buried in the ocean, locked in a chest, and forgotten.
But secrets don't stay dead.
It had been over twelve days since Cherry and Steven Kock arrived at the luxurious Caribbean island. Yet, Cherry had not once felt like a bride on her honeymoon. It wasn't that she lacked comfort—anything she desired to eat or drink was a mere order away. But something essential was missing.
She felt neglected. Unseen. Like a decorative piece left untouched on a shelf.
As the days passed, her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. She was nearing her breaking point when a quiet voice within urged her to call her mother.
That single call shifted everything.
It was a long conversation—meandering through guilt, strategy, and subtle maternal persuasion. But when Cherry ended the call, her demeanor had changed. She moved with new intention.
First, she reached for the resort's intercom and ordered a table full of specialty dishes and vintage wines known to charm even the hardest hearts. Then came the wardrobe—the nightgowns. Dozens of them, each more seductive than the last, pulled out for inspection. She wasn't just choosing clothes; she was crafting a mood.
She sprayed her favorite designer scent—one her mother had once called "a perfume that speaks before you do." Then, she requested fresh, silken bedsheets—royal purple, like the gowns of queens.
When Steven returned later that evening—exhausted and sunburned from a hunting trip with Sir Arthur James, the retired serviceman who now spent his days chasing games and lost glory—he was met with a new atmosphere.
The room had changed.
No, it was more than that. The room breathed differently.
The lighting was soft, shadows dancing gently on the walls. The scent of jasmine and rosewood clung to the air, teasing his senses. A quiet melody played from the surround speakers, and on the side table sat a bottle of wine—deep red and brooding—opened, poured, and waiting.
Cherry was radiant.
He noticed it at once.
She didn't rush toward him. She didn't speak. She only smiled, warm and calm, like someone who already knew how the night would end.
After a warm shower and a plate of perfectly spiced food, Steven gave in and poured himself a glass of wine. The first sip was smooth—an embrace for his weary body. The second sip tugged gently at his restraint. By the third, he was lost.
His eyes, heavy with wine and weariness, drifted to her. Cherry had disappeared briefly and now returned in a nightgown that could silence the world. Her skin glowed under the dim lights, her hair brushed down in waves.
She walked toward him with slow confidence.
"Let me help you with that," she whispered, unbuttoning his shirt.
He said nothing. Could say nothing.
The bed was already dressed in silk, the scent of her skin impossible to ignore. She slipped in beside him, her presence a living temptation.
She didn't touch him—not at first. Only pressed herself close enough that he could feel her, without the intimacy of full contact.
But it was enough.
Nature responded. Chemistry awakened.
Steven's hands reached for her before he fully realized it. That night, the wall he had carefully built between them crumbled—brick by brick—under the weight of desire, wine, and emotional exhaustion.
Whatever restraint he had been clinging to—whatever moral compass had guided him before—was lost in that bed of silken sheets and whispered sighs.
Cherry didn't smile in victory. She simply closed her eyes and held him close, knowing she had claimed what she came for.
It happened again the next night. And again, Steven surrendered.
But by the third morning, an urgent photo-call shattered the delicate illusion.
"Mr. Kock," the voice on the encrypted line said, "There's been a shift in Venezuela's National Assembly. You'll need to return to base. The refinery approval now hangs in the balance."
Steven's heart dropped.
Duty had come knocking—loud and fast. And Cherry, lying silently beside him, stared at the ceiling as the echoes of events cumulating into a reclaim of what she believes is hers saturates the room. She was called back from her moment drift by Stevens voice, get ready, it's time to board the plane back.